


Surréalisme

by 35-leukothea (35_leukothea)



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nezushi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35_leukothea/pseuds/35-leukothea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shion has abstract night terrors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surréalisme

**Author's Note:**

> surrealism: artistic avant-garde movement strongly influenced by Freud, father of psychoanalysis, that sought to release the potential of the unconscious mind.
> 
> post-reunion, but really no context required. read on tumblr [here](http://35-leukothea.tumblr.com/post/120851254587/happy-no-6-day-post-reunion-but-really-zero).

When Shion wakes, something is very wrong.

His pulse is racing and he feels choked, smothered, as if he’s asthmatic and has just run a marathon. His entire body is frozen and his voice has been stolen away. He can’t remember his dream. There’s nothing there. No—there’s something. Someone. A familiar laugh…the whizzing, interlocking parts of a computer. The patter of hard rain on a roof and an indefinitely deep cavern that is black and black and black and the person is laughing as they reach out to him, they reach for his wrist and everywhere they touch him he’s being pierced with needles and their aura of red is screaming in his ears and first gunshot, second gunshot, why won’t he just  _die_ —

He gasps and jerks awake again.

His hair is being caressed. It’s a very pleasant feeling, rhythmic and calming. He can hear faint humming, too, and vaguely recognizes the tune. Something classical, maybe. There’s a blanket over him, a shoulder under him, and an arm around him. He knows where he is, and he is glad for it.

“Nezumi?” he mumbles.

The humming stops, but the other still strokes his hair. His voice is quiet and mild. “Yes, my prince?”

“What time is it?”

“Five past three.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes, Shion.”

He still hasn’t opened his eyes. Half of him wants to, and half of him doesn’t think he could if he tried. He’s still tired and still scared. What’s he scared for? He’s awake now.

“You should go to sleep,” he mumbles into Nezumi’s chest. “Why are you up?”

“It’s your fault, really,” explains Nezumi, and Shion knows he doesn’t say it to blame him. “You kept kicking me. Giving me a taste of my own medicine, I suppose. What were you doing in your dream?”

He takes a moment answering. “Dunno. Falling. It was…panicky.”

“Was I in it?”

“Probably.”

“Anyone else?”

“Safu, maybe,” he guesses. “Elyurias. Nothing unusual.”

There’s a pause. “Didn’t seem like a usual dream, sweetness,” Nezumi remarks, gently prompting Shion to keep talking.

But there’s nothing for him to talk about. He just doesn’t remember, which is why it’s so silly he’s still frightened. Instead, he asks, “What do you dream about, Nezumi?”

Nezumi shrugs. “Money.”

Shion laughs at this, feels slightly better, and if he were looking he’d see Nezumi smile at him; he still doesn’t want to sleep, though. There’s a slight ringing in his ears, remnant of no earthly noise, but of whatever night terror his brain had just hurled at him…no, he’s not ready to sleep yet. In a little while, maybe. For now, he just revels in the touch of Nezumi’s fingers as they run through his hair and tries to even out his breathing. Maybe he  _does_  have some minute form of asthma.  _No,_ he recalls, _asthma is hereditary_. Environmental factors, then? Well, unless somebody has set something on fire nearby…yeah, he’s just freaked out.

“Shion?”

He snaps himself out of his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“You think you could let go of my shirt now?”

“What?” Shion’s so surprised he opens his eyes for the first time since waking. “I’m not—oh.”

He relaxes the muscles in his hands and realizes they’re both in fists—he’s had one of them clamped around a bunch of fabric that is, presumably, Nezumi’s shirt. He lets go of the cloth and curls and uncurls his sore fingers. “Well,” he says, “that’ll be wrinkled come morning.”

“Come morning?” Nezumi repeats. “It’s wrinkled now. You were yanking it so hard it’s probably left a mark on my neck.”

“Oh, cry about it.”

“Ah, there’s the snide retort I was waiting for.”

Shion gives a weak grin and turns his face back into Nezumi’s shoulder. He can feel himself starting to slip away. “If I start dreaming again, will you wake me up?” he asks.

“I mean, no promises,” Nezumi warns, “but I can try.”

“No promises, huh.”

“None that I can’t keep,” he agrees. “Go to sleep, Shion. I doubt you’ll have that dream again.”

“Really?”

“Night terrors only happen during a specific time of night, airhead. Something to do with brain activity.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Nezumi laughs. “Does that make you feel better?”

Shion puts an arm around the other’s waist and snuggles closer to him under the blanket. “Not as much as you.”

“Ugh, Shion, we’ve talked about the sap.”

“Have we?” he mumbles sleepily.

“We have.”

Shion doesn’t respond, so Nezumi, certain that he won’t get any snark for it, leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, then one to the corner of his mouth. “Fair dreams unto thee, sweet prince,” he whispers.

Then he begins to sing again. Or maybe Shion is dreaming.


End file.
